


Our Side is Ineffable

by Uberbearsharkm8



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Didn't Know They Were Dating, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Maybe smut another time, Mutual Pining, No smut because this is for my sister, Post-Armageddon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uberbearsharkm8/pseuds/Uberbearsharkm8
Summary: Following the events of Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley begin to learn what it means to be on their own side.





	1. Killer Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CowardlyDemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CowardlyDemon/gifts).



When mortals were asked to describe the pits of Hell, they commonly conjured images of scorching flames overrunning the Fallen Kingdom in the way vines held a firm grasp around the greenery in a jungle. Mortals, however, were lacking when it came to knowledge of Hell. In fact, even immortals found themselves rather lacking in regards to their knowledge of Hell if from there they had not belonged.

The Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, was one such immortal whose idea of Hell had been skewed by the beliefs of mortals. He had been alongside the lot of humans for over six-thousand years; it was only natural for him to fear Hell in the way an ice sculpture feared a flame—it was not as if he held a frame of reference. No courses were given in Heaven on what exactly Hell was like, only that it was by no means pleasant. Aziraphale had heard plenty of horror stories from the other angels, but those were mere cautionary tales, brewed by higher authorities to ensure an angel’s loyalty. And Crowley never spoke of Hell in a comprehensible fashion; sometimes when intoxicated beyond belief he would break down in Aziraphale’s arms, sobbing over how Hell was so full that he feared he would lose his breath, but Aziraphale rather believed the demon was exaggerating. Or at least, that’s what he had assumed prior to being brought into Hell following the failure of Armageddon in what he had considered to be an absolutely marvelous miracle performed by him and Crowley.

Aziraphale felt sick to his stomach when he witnessed Hell for the first time. There were no flames swallowing the air around him; he would have preferred that. The hallways were packed with demons, strolling shoulder-to-shoulder in the way cattle did when walking to their slaughter. Personal space didn’t exist in Hell, no matter where you walked your flesh hit another’s. It was grimy, the smell so pungent Aziraphale believed he could see it following him in a miasma of black smoke. And the noise, oh Lord Almighty the noise was horrible. Screams echoed in every level of Hell, poor, twisted, bloodcurdling screams waltzed through Aziraphale’s ears with such force he thought he would go mad. It was dreadful, absolutely dreadful. When settled into a lovely bath drawn of holy water while borrowing Crowley’s form, he could not help but grin upon realizing his demon would never need to visit this horrid place ever again.

Having seen the horrors of Hell firsthand, Aziraphale began to understand quite a few things about his friend which he previously could not have fathomed. Crowley had a home with few decorations adorning the walls. The most crowded room he owned was for his plants; a large contrast from what Hell was like. Crowley owned few things, and each thing held a purpose for existing—Crowley did not collect things just because he found them interesting.

Crowley was discomforted by silence as well. Very often he would refuse to enter Aziraphale’s bookshop unless a record played—the poor demon must have grown so accustomed to the noises of Hell that he could not understand a ride in his Bentley without Queen playing as loud as his speakers would allow. Aziraphale realized then that Crowley did not enjoy noise—he needed it. Without noise he was likely too reminded of the place from which he had fell all those centuries before, far before Earth had been made with a flick of the Almighty’s boredom-struck wrist.

Suddenly having such knowledge bestowed upon him was nothing which Aziraphale took lightly. He wanted to express to Crowley that he finally held some minute understanding of the torment he’d be forced to undergo for so, so many millennia. He wanted to take the demon into his arms and inform him that he would never, ever need to return to a place as horrid as Hell for the rest of their immortal lives. He wanted to do all this and more, and so when they finalized their celebratory meal at the Ritz, Aziraphale suggested they return to Crowley’s dwelling rather than his own.

“Really, Angel,” Crowley murmured once he’d slid into the Bentley. He had to admit, that Adam Antichrist kid did a decent job at restoring the car to her former beauty. “I would’ve thought you’d rather see your bookshop. You ‘aven’t seen it since the whole burning-down-thing.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, as if he needed to be reminded that he hadn’t been surrounded by his books in what felt like days. He was sure Adam had done a lovely job fixing his shop, but he could not squander his desire to inspect each of his beloved treasures just in case.

“The shop will be there in the morning,” he hoped, at least. “I can accept your word on everything being shipshape.”

“Shipshape?” Even though Crowley wore his glasses, Aziraphale could feel the inevitable roll of his eyes. “Absolutely nobody, and I do mean it when I say nobody, says such idiotic things as you.”

“In 1862 you asked if ducks had ears,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Which was a valid question. Much more valid than you saying things like ‘wiggle on’ and ‘shipshape’ and ‘tickety-boo’.”

Aziraphale would have taken offense, were it not the endearment—annoyed as it might be—he detected within Crowley’s words. He instead miracled away the blush beginning to form on his pale flesh and allowed his eyes to drift towards the window. He was rather pleased to note that while Crowley was surpassing ninety miles per hour at an alarming rate, he was at least giving the road its due attention.

The Best of Queen had been playing, as it always seemed to be whenever Aziraphale rode in the Bentley. Crowley claimed it was the only album he owned which Aziraphale would enjoy (Queen was entirely better than bebop, Aziraphale knew that for certain), but the angel’s money was on Queen being the only artist Crowley ever wanted to listen to when given the choice.

The song currently playing was Killer Queen, and when he strained his ears, Aziraphale could make out his friend humming along to the words. It made his heart—if angels had those, of course, swell with adoration.

_She’s a Killer Queen, gunpowder, gelatin, dynamite with a laser beam. Guaranteed to blow your mind, anytime. Recommended at the price, insatiable an appetite. Wanna try?_

“You know,” Aziraphale did so hope he wasn’t irritating Crowley by speaking over the song. There had been times in the past where a rather tetchy Crowley threatened to kick him out for speaking over his favorite parts in both Bohemian Rhapsody and Under Pressure. “I still don’t understand what this song is about.”

Crowley groaned. “We’ve been over this at least a hundred times, Aziraphale. For Satan’s sa—for Queen’s sake.” He ignored Aziraphale’s confused mouthing of ‘Queen’s sake’ and continued. “’S’bout a fancy, high-class prostitute.”

“A high-class… what? What’s a prostitute?”

The demon did look from the road now, staring Aziraphale down. His face basked in scrutiny, and he would not have looked away anytime soon were it not for the frantic shouting he heard.

“Eyes on the road!” Aziraphale jumped up in his seat. He pointed at the windshield, yelping as Crowley came closer to oncoming traffic. “Watch out for those cars!”

The Bentley swerved hard, making both men inside fall back against their headrests with a thump. “Buggers shouldn’t have been in my lane,” Crowley grumbled. “You’re serious, though? Dunno what a prostitute is?”

Upon catching sight of the red blush smearing Crowley’s cheeks, Aziraphale feared he’d said something wrong. It seemed to be a lucky thing he hadn’t asked anyone else about this word.

“No. No, I don’t. We don’t have them in Heaven, whatever they are.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. A prostitute’s a… ’s’a… an escort.”

“Like a tour guide?”

“What? No. Not at all like that. Never, ever say that again.”

Crowley wasn’t even sure if angels really knew about the human acts performed to continue their population. He himself hadn’t understood early on; he’d thought a singular unicorn aboard Noah’s Ark to be enough to continue their population. Bit sick of the Almighty, really, he thought, to require acts of debauchery for reproduction. Bit sicker even when the humans made Lust a Deadly Sin, and allowed demons like Hastur to condemn them to eternity in Hell for feelings God wired into their brains. Crowley doubted his angel knew about those acts; surely God’s former favorite would have but no idea of copulation.

He rapped fingers against his steering wheel, well-aware of an angel’s eyes fixating on him a bit too intently. Satan give him strength… Well, not Satan. Crowley couldn’t imagine that he and the Dark Lord were now on very good terms after the Adam denouncing him thing went down. Had he and Satan ever been on good terms, really? Likely not. Ah well, it hardly mattered now.

“They’re people you pay for coitus.” He considered performing his own demonic miracle and removing Aziraphale from the car, placing him in his bookshop, but decided against it. After the stunt he watched those damned archangels pull with hellfire, he had no desire to leave Aziraphale alone for longer than need be. “The song’s ‘bout an upper-class woman paid for intercourse.”

Silence filled the Bentley momentarily, aside from the song in question, which was beginning to dwindle towards its end. Aziraphale pondered over what he was told, before unexpectedly speaking to the flustered demon beside him.

“Like the ladies in a brothel?” he asked, the question making Crowley choke on air. “Are you quite alright?”

“Y-Yes,” Crowley pressed his chin atop his steering wheel, his eyes flashing from Aziraphale to the road. “How do you… Who the hell told you about brothels, Angel?”

“Nobody, really.” Aziraphale couldn’t see what was so distressing about this to Crowley. Unbeknownst to him, angels weren’t as sheltered as most demons would believe. At least, Aziraphale wasn’t; six-thousand years with humans does permit for at least some knowledge on reproduction to exist even within the purest of minds. “In… oh dear, what year was it… ah, yes! In 1888, I was sent to Whitechapel to perform a few minor miracles, and that just so happened to be when those dreadful Jack the Ripper murders were happening—”

Crowley interrupted, “he’s overrated.”

“Yes yes, indeed. As I was saying, I was in Whitechapel and heard how those terrible killings were targeting young women in brothels, and I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to at least bless the brothels.”

“You blessed a brothel?” Crowley gaped. “That doesn’t seem very holy.”

“It felt right to do.”

“And how’d your superiors take it? Can’t imagine Gabriel was pleased with that.”

“He never brought it up, actually.”

“Lucky you.”

Aziraphale had actually enjoyed his time in Whitechapel during the Autumn of Terror. While performing his blessings on various brothels, he’d met some absolutely lovely ladies. He felt it terribly unfair that society had seemed so against them, simply because of the line of work they’d chosen. The most of them were good people, gentle and kind with large hearts the lot of Heaven would be glad to have. One of the most memorable of workers Aziraphale met had been a woman named Sybil, who found his magic acts pleasantly entertaining. Aziraphale remembered her to adore his coin tricks, enough to ask him to show her how to do such feats of magic on her own.

Since then, Aziraphale never failed to use his spare time visiting what Heaven considered to be “workers of an indecent establishment.” He never once entered a house of ill repute or a gentleman’s club for personal pleasure, but instead to be a friend to anyone who may need one. The angel knew quite well how lonely the world could feel without a nearby friend…

“Aziraphale…” Crowley hesitated with his words. He didn’t know exactly how to ask what he wanted to. And he couldn’t quite explain why the question mattered to him at all. It shouldn’t have, not really. And somehow it did. “When you were in those… brothels,” he could not, for the life of him, imagine this angel ever entering such an establishment. “You never actually slept with anyone, did you?”

“I don’t remember ever sharing a bed with anyone.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean… never mind. Forget I said anything. ‘Doesn’t matter.”

Aziraphale went to press Crowley further, to obtain some sort of elaboration. As soon as his lips parted to express his confusion, Crowley’s fingers snapped, and the volume of the music within the Bentley increased tenfold. Aziraphale took that as his cue to silence himself, and so he stayed for the remainder of the drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is alright so far! It's my first piece of fanfiction that I'm actually posting, simply because I just adore Good Omens so much and had to write for it! It's starting a bit slow, but the confessions of love and days of fluff are coming soon!


	2. Angel's Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes to a sudden realization and Crowley starts to get emotional.

When mortals were asked to describe Heaven, their words painted a picture of pure beauty. They imagined a kingdom of love, stocked with the brightest golds and adorned with whatever its inhabitants found most majestic. They saw angels handcrafted by God, donning wings of the purest white ever created. This was inaccurate, as most human interpretations of the Heavenly tend to be.

The demon Crowley had once belonged to Heaven, but that hadn’t meant he could recall what the place was like. As soon as he plunged downwards into a pit of hellfire for the first time, memories of Heaven were purged from his burn; scorched away as any other angelic part of him was supposed to be. Sometimes, usually after a decent amount of drinks, he would try to rack his brain and remember what it was like. He couldn’t tell anymore what was from his fragmented memory, and what had been passed to him by the poison of rumors. Sometimes he’d try to evoke information out of Aziraphale, who would usually accuse him then of using temptations to spy on Heaven. Needless to say, his pool of knowledge on Heaven was limited at best, and after having entered the Kingdom once again, he wished his knowledge would have stayed spotty.

Crowley had never felt so empty in the entirety of his immortal life as he did when he was dragged into Heaven and bound in an uncomfortable chair. Well, he had felt emptier when he thought Aziraphale to be dead, but that was besides the point. The point was, Heaven was terrible. It was clean, it was _too_ clean, everything was sanitized and whitened to such an extent that Crowley thought if he brushed a finger against anything he would blemish it for eternity. Not only that, it was blinding. The way the walls, the flooring, the way it all shone so intensely made Crowley wish he had his sunglasses once again. It was almost painful; it took every ounce of self-control the demon held to not miracle himself away. And it was quiet, horribly quiet, quiet enough for Crowley to actually hear the blood coursing through his human vessel. The quiet alone would have been enough to drive an average man insane, but to pair that with the blinding whiteness of it all and the wallowing emptiness it held, Heaven was more like a padded cell you could never escape than the pleasant perfection it was made out to be.

It explained a lot, really, about Aziraphale. It suddenly made sense to Crowley why his friend owned a bookshop that was overwhelmingly full with every item the angel had ever fallen in love with. Crowley had always wondered why, had even teased Aziraphale over his materialism, but now he understood. In Heaven, Aziraphale must have felt lonesome, must have wanted to fill the voice Heaven held, and he used his books to do so. That bookshop of his was everything Heaven wasn’t: filled with pleasant music, plush furniture meant to be used, and books (as well as other items) that incited such pleasure.

The angels were twats, too. No wonder Aziraphale tried to avoid being on Gabriel’s radar; he was a piece of shit. Crowley would have punched the archangel the last time he saw him, if he wasn’t stuck in Aziraphale’s form. Nothing brought Crowley as much joy as he received when he stepped into the hellfire in Heaven and knew his angel would never need to enter this disgusting place again.

No, now Aziraphale was safe, safe from those piece of shit angels who treated him as if he were scum ground into their shoes; Crowley had made very sure of that. And now Aziraphale was in Crowley’s home, cheerfully looking around while Crowley excused himself to take out frustrations on his plants.

Why had he asked Aziraphale such stupid questions? Why did it matter if the angel had slept around during his time on Earth? In moments of weakness, Crowley had. And if Aziraphale did the same, that was fine. Obviously, it was fine. That prospect didn’t enrage the demon with a jealously he had never known before. Obviously.

He was mid-shout at one of his larger plants, which was showing the potential of gaining spots, when Aziraphale tottered into the spinning doorway. “Crowley,” he said, looking disapprovingly when he saw the enraged expression Crowley cast towards the plant. “Do you think you’d have time to take me to Tadfield tomorrow?”

“Tadfield?” Crowley cast a warning glance to the plant in question before approaching Aziraphale. “Why the hell would you wanna go back there?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted. “I just feel like I should see if everything is alright.”

“Of course everything’s alright. Adam’s fixed it all.”

Crowley walked past the other and sunk into his chair, sighing in relief as his body went slack in the plush throne. He snapped his fingers, watching a chair companion to his own (though not nearly regal as his) appear on the other side of the desk, then motioning for Aziraphale to sit down.

“Tadfield, sure,” Crowley propped his legs up on his desk. He was still annoyed with himself for caring so much about his friend’s history. He was even more annoyed that he didn’t know if Aziraphale had ever been with someone else. “Anything else? ‘Wanna stop by Buckingham Palace and check on the Queen while we’re at it?”

Aziraphale disregarded the sarcasm with a shake of his head. When Crowley was annoyed by something, it did little good to mouth off to him. Usually, attempting to hold a conversation at all with a pissed off demon was not advisable for angels, but Aziraphale had a slimmer of hope that he could bring something near a smile to the demon’s face.

“That won’t be necessary.” He took a deep breath, not knowing exactly how to phrase what he wished to say. “I believe I should tell you that I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About us being on our side rather than any others.”

Crowley took a sharp intake of breath at this. He’d found that conversing with Aziraphale about their “side” had not gone very well. At the moment, he didn’t have the temperament to argue over the dynamics between Heaven and Hell. He barely had the temperament to sit with Aziraphale without cursing himself for caring so much about the angel.

“Spill it then. If you’re going to tell me we’re on opposite sides, I’m not interested.”

“No, no, no, no,” Aziraphale looked panicked for a second, as if implying such a thing was worrisome to him. “The opposite, actually. I… I was scared to vex the Almighty, and my higher-ups by default, by my involvement with you. And I regret that it took me until Armageddon to realize how badly I wanted us to be our own team.” His face burned as he spoke, and he could not force himself to look up from his hands, which he clasped together. “I apologize for not recognizing this until now.”

Crowley stared, dumbfounded. Out of everything he thought he’d be told that night, this was certainly not it. He expected another argument, not a conveyance of pure emotion such as this.

“Oh.” He could hardly force the word out. A few minutes ago he was angered over the thought of Aziraphale’s path crossing with someone else’s, and now he was being told all the angel wanted was for them to walk the same path. “No need to ‘pologize for that. Makes sense, I can’t blame you for it.” No, he couldn’t, but Aziraphale’s seeming disinterest in their side at the time had pained Crowley worse than holy water ever could. “What makes you bring this up?”

“If what you said is true, and we are on our own side… On our own side against the forces of Heaven and Hell…” Even as he spoke, Aziraphale could hardly process his own words. A mere few days ago he was an esteemed servant of Heaven, despite being scorned by certain archangels, and now he was, for lack of kinder words, considered a traitor on the side of a demon—a demon who was also considered traitorous. It was a bit too much to process. “What will we do if they… attempt to discorporate us?” Or worse.

Crowley hadn’t thought about that possibility. Not because he believed him and Aziraphale lucky enough for the inhabitants of Hell and Heaven to conveniently forget their existence. Rather, he hadn’t imagined any of them to be a threat. Not when he could conjure hellfire and Aziraphale could bless water to make it holy.

“Then Alpha Centauri’s a miracle away.”

Aziraphale thought on this for a moment, unable to hide his smile. The first time Alpha Centauri was brought up, he was scared by the prospect of disobeying Heaven to run off with Crowley. But now, now he didn’t need to worry if Heaven was upset with him. Now it didn’t matter. And now he could go wherever he liked with whomever he liked.

“You seem to adore Alpha Centauri,” he said gently. “Is it that lovely there?”

Crowley scoffed, “I should hope so. I made it.”

The angel stared, waiting for Crowley to say he was joking, but he never did. From what he understood, only seraphim of high power and regard were the creators of astrological bodies. If that were true, Crowley must have been a truly honorable angel before he fell.

“Did you really, my dear?” he asked despite knowing the answer. “You remember doing so? Do you remember anything else from before you… well, you know…”

“Before I fell? Yeah, ‘few things. I remember creating star systems and things like that. And I don’t ‘member Heaven, but I remember why I fell, rather cruel of the Almighty, innit, to make me remember that… Not all fallen remember falling, you know, I’m one of the few. Most just know they fell and that’s all.”

“Why is that?” Aziraphale had heard that those who fell lost most of their memories prior to the fall, and that all angels lost memory of the fallen. He assumed it was to minimize fraternization between angels and demons, but it hardly seemed fair.

Crowley thought it to be some twisted joke of God’s. Her making him remember why he fell, that is. It was like she wanted him to wallow in the memories of his mistakes, as if that would somehow make him feel remorse for his actions. It hadn’t worked; it was hard to feel remorse when all he’d done was ask the simplest of questions and enjoy company that wasn’t necessarily the best of influences. He decided not to tell Aziraphale all this, murmured an “I dunno” instead, and tried to change the subject.

“I can remember my eyes. I remember having the best eyes in all of Heaven.” They had been beautiful, Crowley vaguely recalled having them complimented wherever he went. They were golden, as if he had been given lockets made of pure gold for eyes. And then he fell and those beautiful eyes were stolen from him. “You’d have liked them.”

Aziraphale noticed the despair shining on Crowley’s face, as well as the tightness welling in his throat when he spoke. He hadn’t seen the demon so despondent since news of Freddie Mercury’s passing had spread.

He reached a hand out, placing it atop Crowley’s. Humans engaged in forms of physical affection to soothe each other, and while said affection was alien to Aziraphale, he hoped it could do some good here. “I rather enjoy your eyes now,” he said, frowning as Crowley pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure your eyes before were remarkable, but I find yours breathtaking now. Snakes are my favorite of animals, you know.”

Silence brewed between them for an indefinite amount of time, only to be broken when Crowley rose to his feet. “Go to bed. We’ll leave for Tadfield in the morning.”

The previous night, Crowley miracled a bed for Aziraphale upon realizing that unlike himself, the angel was not content with sleeping on a wall. It was next to the window so Aziraphale could look out amongst the city lights illuminating the night sky. Crowley, on the other hand, slept away from the windows; he wasn’t fond of light attacking his face while asleep.

Unless the light came from a certain angel, but Crowley would never admit that. He didn’t have to. He was certain Aziraphale knew that every time Crowley had to return to Hell, he was Crowley’s light at the end of the tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Crowley's got something planned to treat his angel while they're in Tadfield. Assuming everything goes according to his plan, that is.


	3. He's not my Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale heads to Tadfield and learns of another prophecy written by Agnes Nutter in regards to him and Crowley, while Crowley plans a picnic.

Tadfield hadn’t seemed any different, not to anyone who drove through the village following Armageddon. It was gorgeous as ever, and just like the rest of the world, showed no signs of Armageddon ever occurring. Even so, Aziraphale wanted to be certain. Just in case something had gone wrong or Adam had found himself in danger or anything of that nature. Oh dear, he really hoped Adam was alright.

It was highly unlikely for anything to have gone wrong, but Aziraphale couldn’t help himself from worrying. Other angels said he thought too much, and in this case he thought they might be right. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t intent on checking things out anyways.

“Right, I’ll be back in a bit,” Crowley told him once they arrived in the heart of Tadfield. “I’ve got things to take care of.”

Aziraphale stepped out of the Bentley, “Things?” he questioned, glad to see Crowley step out as well. “What type of things? You’re not going to do something that will inconvenience London, are you? You do know we live there, don’t you?”

The demon merely grinned at this. “‘Course I’m not. Not unless something pops up along the way.”

“Then where are you going?”

“No need to worry, I’ll be back for you soon. Don’t enjoy yourself too much when I’m gone.” And with that, Crowley hopped back into his beloved car and drove away before Aziraphale could protest.

He would have liked to have seen Tadfield with Crowley under different circumstances rather than trying to stop Armageddon. It truly was a gorgeous village, bustling with lively people and the most adorable pets. The flowers shone as brightly as the sun, taking every color of the rainbow. The grass was the greenest Aziraphale had seen since he had been in the Garden of Eden and there were trees perfect for climbing by any child ambitious enough.

Walking the streets of Tadfield was less entertaining than Aziraphale anticipated, mainly because Crowley was not with him. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, even when he walked by Adam’s house. He expected that Adam intentionally retained at least some of his powers, despite returning everything to normal. It made sense; what eleven year-old who recently discovered he was the all-powerful Antichrist wouldn’t want to keep even a sliver of his powers? Keeping that in mind, Aziraphale had expected even the littlest signs of Adam displaying this magic. And yet… there was nothing.

Tadfield did hold a few nice shops at the very least, all of which Aziraphale found himself popping into out of curiosity. Most lacked anything worth his attention, unfortunately. Most except a small plant nursery, from which he purchased a yellow rose plant he intended on gifting to Crowley. He knew roses were cliché, of course, but he couldn’t help himself. They were so intricately crafted by the Almighty to be beholders of immense beauty, and the petals on his plant were stunning. They were the color of the sun, bright and vibrant and bursting with life; they were the color of Crowley’s eyes, the loveliest color Aziraphale could ever dream of.

He expected nothing to catch his interest once he finished browsing Tadfield’s shops, though this was proven incorrect once he stumbled across a familiar face during his ‘investigation.’ As he walked through what he considered a very pretty meadow, he saw the young lady Crowley had hit with his car. What was her name? Adam had said it when they were at the airbase… Anathema, was it? Something to that effect, Aziraphale was certain.

“Are you here to steal another one of my books?” She asked as soon as she saw the angel, approaching him.

His face immediately flushed, “Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m terribly sorry about that whole ordeal. I had meant to return it to you, but things… popped up, if you will. What with Armageddon and all.”

Anathema looked Aziraphale up and down, as if staring him down could tell her if he was speaking truthfully. “What are you doing here, then? You obviously didn’t come all the way to Tadfield just to buy a flower.”

Aziraphale looked at the plant in his hands, nearly having forgotten about it already. “I wanted to check on things, make sure Adam’s alright.” He explained, awaiting a sarcastic remark as he had received from Crowley.

No sarcasm emerged. On the contrary, Anathema merely nodded in what Aziraphale believed to be a sign of understanding. “Of course. It’s unusual to see you alone. Where’s your husband?”

“My… what?”

“Your husband. The demon.” Anathema deadpanned.

Aziraphale froze on the spot, overcome with a whirlwind of thoughts all at once. This woman presumed Crowley to be his husband, _his husband_. That was absolutely absurd. They were just friends, that’s all they’d ever been. Sure, the idea was enticing, but it just wasn’t feasible. Crowley was a demon, and he was an angel, things like love couldn’t brew between opposite sides—but they were on their own side… No, Aziraphale didn’t love Crowley. He never had. He hadn’t fallen for the demon. He certainly hadn’t seen those eyes in the most pleasant of his dreams, nor had he felt struck by Cupid’s arrow when Crowley saved those books in 1941 for him. He just cared about the other, that was all. It wasn’t love at all. Obviously…

“I-I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss. He’s not my husband,” oh how he hated how much his voice shook, it was terribly unlike him, “we’re just friends.”

“Just friends?” Anathema actually laughed at this, as if she had just been told a fantastic joke. “That’s not true. Not according to Agnes.”

“Agnes? What?”

“Prophecy 4319: When Lord of Fire cloaks Earth in dark, the Young Beast’s shoulders bear wed Angel and Fallen, whose words make return of light. That’s obviously referring to you two, unless there was another angel and demon pair assisting Adam.”

Aziraphale hardly processed anything Anathema said. He had read Agnes’s prophecies cover-to-cover, surely he wouldn’t have missed something obvious as that. Would he? There had been so many prophecies he read through, would it really be much of a shock if he skimmed over a few of them? Even if he had, Agnes was wrong; he and Crowley were not married, not by the traditional means, anyways. Then again, they’d been rather inseparable for the last six-thousand years, was that marriage? It could be, but he doubted Crowley felt anything more than friendship for him.

“Angel!”

Aziraphale was dragged out from his thoughts when the shout of his friend made its way into his eardrums. When squinting, he could make out a figure waving to him from further down the meadow. That was a bit odd, but not unwelcome.

“I’ll let you get going then,” Anathema’s smile hinted that she knew something the angel didn’t, which seemed to be a common theme around her. “Enjoy your date.”

“No, no, that’s not what this is, you’ve got it wrong—,” Aziraphale cut his blabbering off with a small sigh. Clearly, it wasn’t doing much. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Miss Anathema. I do hope you have a lovely rest of your day.”

The woman walked away, leaving Aziraphale to stroll over to his friend, who was still waving at him. As he neared the demon, he recognized him to be holding a wicker basket, a picnic basket to be specific.

“So, did you find any demonic activity? Are those flowers possessed?” Crowley teased, but Aziraphale hardly heard him. He was too busy observing the blanket sprawled out amongst the grass, which was littered with flower petals of every color.

“Crowley… what’s this?” he asked, even though it was quite obvious.

“S’a picnic, you promised me one in 1967.”

He had? Oh, right, he had mentioned a picnic after giving Crowley the holy water. Even so, he never thought his friend would actually take him up on that offer. Nor did he think his friend would go out and set up a picnic on his own.

“And you say you’re not nice…” Aziraphale murmured, only sitting on the blanket after he watched Crowley do so. “This is quite lovely of you to do, thank you.”

Crowley scoffed, though the blood rushing to his cheeks could not be missed. “Oh shut it,” he began pulling food from his basket, only stopping to ask, “Are those for the bookshop?” He nodded his head towards the flowers held by the angel.

“Uhm, no, w-well…” If his voice was shaking before, it certainly was now. Aziraphale didn’t know why he was acting this way all of a sudden. He’d given Crowley gifts plenty of times before without getting all flustered beforehand. But this was so unlike all those other times. This time he’d just been told a prophet believed him and Crowley to be husbands, and this time he was sitting at a picnic which was made possible by his beloved demon. Dear Lord…

He pushed the plant into Crowley’s hands, managing to mumble a bashful “they’re for you.”

The demon observed the gift he now held, unable to prevent the corners of his mouth from turning upwards. It was beautiful, he had to admit that much. It would certainly stand out amongst everything else he owned, and he would have to remember that if it was from Aziraphale, he couldn’t yell at it… He’d keep it on his desk, away from his shouting matches with his plants.

“Thank you, Angel,” he set the pot down. “It’s an interesting color choice. I didn’t take you for much of a yellow person.”

“I’m not, not really. But I much enjoy that shade, it’s the same color as your eyes.”

Aziraphale anticipated to be snapped at for mentioning the demon’s eyes, especially after their conversation the previous night. Instead, Crowley seemed distraught, unknowing of what to say. It wasn’t like him to be wordless, but Aziraphale found it rather adorable.

“I know you don’t like them,” Aziraphale shifted closer to the other, somewhat aware of his hand moving up to rest on Crowley’s sunglasses, “but I truly think they’re miraculous.” When his friend didn’t push his hand away, Aziraphale pulled off his sunglasses, revealing those eyes he’d been enchanted by ever since he saw them in the Garden of Eden.

“You’re an angel,” Crowley mumbled, “you have to say that.”

“Actually, angels aren’t usually fond of demon eyes.”

“Are you saying you’re special, then?”

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was blushing more from the smirk Crowley donned, or from how much closer in proximity the two seemed suddenly. He’d miracle the coloration away were it not for how obvious it would be. “Something like that, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Before he understood what he was doing, Crowley had Aziraphale’s face cupped in the palms of his hands, and allowed their lips to finally, _finally_ meet.

Their souls intertwined, blooming together with such vigor that neither ethereal being remembered exactly where they were. Both could feel their wings revealing themselves in the heat of the moment, and both were far too overcome with ardor to even notice. The kiss felt like what Heaven should have been, as cozy as Aziraphale’s bookshop and as warm as a freshly brewed cup of tea. It felt like home. For the first time in over six-thousand years, the angel and demon found their home: each other.

Aziraphale pulled back, just enough for his lips to quiver as Crowley’s breath hit them. In the back of his mind he noticed the most elegant, blackened wings enveloping his form. “Crowley…” he clasped his hands onto the demon’s, utterly delighted with how perfectly they fit together. “How long have you felt this way?”

Crowley stared at the divine being before him. The angel looked so beautiful—he always did. Splashes of pink colored his cheeks, highlighting the beautiful smile he wore and that dreamy look within his eyes. He was the most perfect thing the Almighty had ever sculpted.

“I’ve known,” Crowley whispered, “since you told me what happened to your sword.”

Aziraphale stared for a moment, evidently not expecting this, not expecting to have been loved by this demon since mere minutes after they first met. How could such a remarkable individual have been infatuated with him of all people for so terribly long?

The angel’s wings tightened around Crowley, as if they feared to lose him. “You’re heavenly,” Aziraphale laughed at the eye roll he received. “Really, you are,” without giving Crowley time to argue, he brought their lips together once again.

Any passerby would see nothing but two pairs of wings, interlocked tight enough to disguise their owners. The colors of the gorgeous wings formed the yin-yang symbol, now perfectly balanced after years and years of pure turmoil, as finally Yin had found Yang and Yang had found Yin.

There was no possible way the Almighty had intended it to take six-thousand years for the yin-yang symbol to exist amidst the humans. And yet, no one could deny that the angel and demon now lost in one another had the symbol created for them, and them alone. For one just could never exist without the other; the Almighty surely knew that.


End file.
